"The noblest name in Allegory's page,
The hand that traced inexorable rage;
A pleasing moralist, whose page refined,
Displays the deepest knowledge of the mind;
A tender poet of a foreign tongue,
Indited in the language that he sung."
- 'Enigma'
Edgar Allan Poe
X X X
John's eyelids felt heavy.
He struggled to force them open; fought with all his might. He was afraid (terrified, even), for somewhere in the back of his mind was the lingering thought that Sherlock was in danger. He could not remember how or why or what had happened prior to everything around him going black, all he knew was that Sherlock was in some sort of trouble, and that was all that mattered to him.
His lips parted and he groaned softly. His head was pounding and his entire body felt as if it was made of lead. It took a ridiculous amount of strength and energy simply to move the fingers on his right hand.
As the seconds ticked by, though, his body became less and less heavy, and finally he was able to go so far as to lift his head off the plush couch cushions he was currently lying on. But . . . wait. Hadn't he been on the sidewalk when he'd collapsed?
. . . Sidewalk . . .
Ah, it all came back to him then; the Doctor, the TARDIS, Bouken, sand, heat, returning, three men, guns, shouting, a knife at Sherlock's throat, brilliant blue eyes, and then . . . darkness.
John remembered now. He remembered all of it. But . . . what had happened to him? That was one thing he hadn't remembered. How had he been knocked out? He hadn't even felt anything hit him. He shoved all that aside, however, as one specific thing jumped back at him out of the memories he'd fished from the groggy recesses of his mind.
A knife at Sherlock's throat . . .
"Sh-Sher . . ." He gasped, his tongue feeling dry and awkward in his own mouth as he pushed himself to his knees, "Sherlock . . ."
"John! Oh, good, you're awake!"
That was the Doctor's voice. It was sort of annoying, and a bit too high-pitched. Did the Doctor really have to speak in such a high voice when John's head was pounding with the worst headache he could ever recall having ever?
"Shut up," he groaned, putting a hand to his head.
There was a soft chuckle then that John recognized easily, and it made his heart leap with relief.
"I think he's alright, Doctor." Sherlock said in that deep voice of his.
"Look," Another, slightly familiar voice said, "We're on a tight schedule here, chuckles, okay? So we really don't have time to wait for your buddy to wake up. We need to explain everything now."
"Let me," another, deeper voice that John remembered better said. He felt a hand on his shoulder then, and it was like a jolt of electricity coursing through his veins. Suddenly he was wide awake, feeling as if he'd just had a shot of adrenaline. With a gasp he leapt to his feet, breathing hard, his hair and clothes sort of askew, and stared, a bit startled to see that he was in 221b Baker Street in their living room.
Wait . . . what?
"Sherlock . . ." he mumbled, feeling a bit dizzy, "What's going on?"
"Just sit back down, John, it'll all be explained in a moment." Sherlock murmured as he guided his friend back down to relax on the cough he'd been lying on.
That's when John noticed the four other men in their flat. The Doctor, of course, was a given, but the three others – they were the ones who had attacked them out on the street. Why were they there? None of this made any sense at all.
"Oh, do stop thinking so hard, John. You're giving me a headache," Sherlock sighed, "Just trust me and relax. It's alright."
Trusting him implicitly – as he always did; ever loyal – John relaxed. That didn't stop him from glaring at the three unwelcome visitors, however, giving him a chance to really scrutinize him. The two who were obviously related looked pretty normal, save for the fact that they were armed to the teeth. But the other one, the one in the tan trench coat . . .
Something about him was wrong.
He looked completely out-of-place next to the two taller men. Actually, he almost looked like he belonged in an office cubicle what with the clothes he was wearing. He wasn't packing any sort of heat like his friends were, either. And he just stood there, his blue eyes calm and cool and his face expressionless.
John was used to the carefully-controlled, expressionless mask Sherlock put up sometimes, though, and this was nothing like that. This was true lack of expression, as if this man hardly – if ever – showed actual emotion. It sort of chilled John to the bone a bit and he quickly looked away.
"So, you were saying," Sherlock began, standing beside John with his hands clasped behind his back. " . . . Vampires, correct?"
John jolted and stared up at his friends. "I'm sorry, what? I think I just misheard you."
"I assure you, John, you did not."
"Yeah, vampires." The tallest of the three said, "But I think before we delve deeper into this that introductions are in order."
His brother sighed heavily, "Sam –"
"I agree!" The Doctor said, bounding over to the tallest one happily, "I'm the Doctor, and you?"
"Uh, Sam Winchester," the tall one said, "And this is my brother, Dean, and that's –"
"I am Castiel," the trench-coat-sporting one said.
"Castiel," The Doctor repeated, "What an interesting name, Castiel." He rolled it off his tongue, as if tasting it, "Cassstiel, Caaastiel, Cas, Cassie . . . Castiel."
The one named Dean raised an eyebrow.
"Anyway!" The Doctor continued, "Obviously you already know our friend, Sherlock Holmes, and that's John Watson over there. He's a doctor."
"Like you?" Sam queried.
"Oh, no. He's an army doctor. Me, I'm . . . something else entirely." He glanced at Castiel, "As are you."
Castiel stiffened.
"How do you know that?" Dean demanded roughly as he reached for his gun.
The Doctor put his hands up, "Hey, hey! No need to have a conniption. I'm just sort of attuned to these kinds of things, is all. It's not my fault. I can't help it!" He turned back to Castiel, "So, those two are talking about vampires, yes? Are you somehow related?"
"No." Castiel said, his voice a bit deeper as if he was offended by the notion the Doctor had suggested. "I am nothing of the sort."
"Then what are you?"
"I am an angel of the Lord."
An uncomfortable silence ensued.
"That's quite a claim," the Doctor said softly after a few moments, "Then again I am a nine hundred year old alien from a planet that no longer exists, so I can guess you can say the same for me."
"This day just keeps on getting better and better," Dean said sarcastically.
Sherlock, meanwhile, had simply been listening. Now he stepped forward, his gaze level and calm. "Now that we're done with the introductions, though, shouldn't we get on with what you two were talking about before?" He seemed perfectly at ease with the fact that Castiel had just claimed to be an angel – John, however, was not.
"Oh, yeah," Sam said quickly, "And look, we know this is going to sound insane –"
"No more insane than aliens, Sam," Dean interrupted.
"– But you're going to have to just take our word for it." Sam continued as if Dean hadn't spoken. "Now, that case you've been working on, Sherlock, the serial murders one? Well, it's not what you think. No human committed those crimes. They were done by a vampire – a frenzied one who has lost every ounce of control it ever had."
"So basically," Dean said, "The vamp has gone into maximum bloodlust mode which makes it even crankier and high-strung than normal. Though originally I didn't think that was possible, you know? Vamps are already douche-y enough as it is."
Sam sighed.
"And . . . we're just supposed to believe you?" John said, still struggling with the fact that these men were claiming the existence of angels and vampires.
"Well you believed this guy, right? You know, with the whole alien thing?" Dean accused, pointing at the Doctor.
"He gave us proof, though." John replied.
Castiel stepped forward, "I will give you the proof you desire." He murmured.
The room began to shake then, and the lights flickered, some of them even going as far as to burst. Thunder rumbled and John saw through the window, with a terrified sort of awe, that clouds were rolling across a previously clear night sky, and somewhere outside lighting flashed, lighting up the room for just a moment; though it was enough for them to see the shadows of the wings on Castiel's back – huge and impossible and terrible.
And when the room settled and everything returned to normal John was breathing hard, gripping at the couch to make sure that he was still alive, and Sherlock had not moved an inch.
"Believe us now?" Dean quipped.
Sherlock tilted his head to the side, a small, mischievous smile curling at the edge of his lips. "Yes, I believe so."
X X X
Castiel stared at the man walking beside him, the one who called himself the Doctor, as his blue eyes trailed down from the man's ruffled hair to the grin on his face, the lankiness of his body, the coat and suit ensemble he wore, and even the red converse on his feet. The inside was the most interesting, though, for this man – this Doctor – had two hearts.
Two hearts.
"Time Lord," Castiel murmured.
The Doctor's head whipped around to face him and he blinked, "Sorry?"
"That's what you called yourself."
"Ah, yes," he smiled, "I'm a Time Lord."
"You look human . . . save for the two hearts you have in your chest."
The Doctor grinned, "Well, you look Time Lord, save for the wings you're so cleverly hiding."
Castiel fell silent at that, feeling as if there wasn't really anything else to say.
They'd left Sherlock and John's flat after explaining everything, wanting to be on their way to continue looking for the vampire responsible for all the murders. Sherlock and John had stayed behind. They – well, John, actually – said that they needed time to let everything sink in. The Doctor, however, had volunteered to go with them, and while Sam and Dean hadn't liked the idea, Castiel had insisted on it.
The Doctor intrigued him.
"So, Doc," Dean said, "You're an alien, right?"
The Doctor nodded. "I come from a different planet, and that's basically the definition of alien, isn't it?"
"I'd say so," Sam murmured, "Now, are we going to keep chatting about this, or are we going to find this son of a bitch?"
"There is just one problem with that, though," Castiel said. "We lost our one good lead. We have nowhere else to look."
"Then why don't we just run out and dare this dick to come to us, then?" Dean demanded, "I'm sick of all this duck and cover crap."
Castiel paused, a frown creasing his forehead.
"What?" Dean asked defensively, "You don't like my plan?"
"I think it's reckless."
"Reckless?" Dean echoed.
The angel gave him a look, "If you don't like reckless, I could use insouciant, maybe."
Dean raised an eyebrow.
"Get a room," Sam quipped. "I agree with Cas, though, Dean. That is not a good plan. The best thing we can do for now is lay low and try and find out as much as we can. We don't want to go running into something like this blind."
Dean sighed, "Fine, then. We'll do it your way. But if this doesn't work then we turn to my plan, alright?"
"Fine by me," Sam said.
Castiel nodded reluctantly.
"Alright, then," Dean said, feeling proud of himself. "So it's settled."
The Doctor grinned, delighted by their conversation as he shoved his hands in his pockets. This was turning out to be interesting. Very interesting indeed.